


The Right Medicine

by MinervaDashwood



Series: Scars and Stitches [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Addiction, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Lyrium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:30:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2778284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinervaDashwood/pseuds/MinervaDashwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen and Fem!quisitor find ways to spend time together. More fluff and angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right Medicine

**Author's Note:**

> Felt like writing some "filler" between the, "Oh I'm glad you're not dead," and the, "I kinda sorta like you a whole lot," points in their relationship. Cullen's poor assistant needed a name, so I named him after the boy who locked himself in cabinet in DA:O.
> 
> Had to give the inquisitor more of a background to make this work. Hope you don't mind. Concrit always welcome.
> 
> **Trigger warning for addiction and withdrawal.**

She moved her third pawn, biting her lip and gazing at the board. It’d been how many years since she last played? Surely it was some time back at the estate, before she’d left. Before Aimon and the others, before Mother and Father had died at the Conclave.

"And yourself, do you have any brothers or sisters to speak of?"

She met Cullen’s smile with a grin of her own. Maker, his eyes were beautiful, and it warmed her through to see him looking back at her, like she _meant_ something. Like he _cared_.

"I am the youngest of twelve," she replied, watching his eyes widen, and she waited for the usual question.

"That many?" Cullen spared the board a passing glance and moved one of his knights. Unlike her, he still had both of his.

"Three brothers, eight sisters, and me.  Ethan, the eldest, now runs the estate, and it is to him that I send my letters. And from whom I received that ludicrous armor."

She spoke of the “Armor of the Dragon,” a ridiculously ostentatious design all the more horrid for its garish color schemes. She never wore it, but had put it on display.  Ethan asked that she mention it when important guests arrived. It was the least she could do, considering he welcomed her back into the family fold.

"The Armor?" Cullen asked.

"It’s in my quarters," she explained.  "Such an eyesore, that it’s worth seeing if only to know something so awful could exist."

Cullen’s shoulders tensed. “Your quarters—well, I—that is—”

She flushed, belatedly realizing what she’d said. “I didn’t mean…I believe it’s my turn.” Staring at the board, she pressed her hands into her lap. It took her some moments to gather her thoughts and make her next move.

She was grateful for the passing breeze that cooled her skin and sweating palms.  Would she feel like this at the next war council? Or at dinner later that evening?

"This has been very nice," he said after they'd played in silence for some time.

"I think so, too," she replied, realizing that in the next round of moves she would surely lose. "We should do this more often." She nudged her Queen to the right, a vain hope at salvaging something from this match.

Cullen was smiling at her again, and leaning forward in his chair. “I would like that.”

She grinned at him like an idiot, believing that his smile told her all the things she wanted to hear. “Me too.”

"You said that."  

She met his eyes and blushed again, from her cheeks to her toes.  Maker, he was  _smirking._  Did he mean to tease her?  She felt like she were a puddle of goo, having no form and no sense, yet at the same time, she was happy and warm all over.

He made his last move and leaned back in his chair. "Looks like this one's yours," he said.

Impossible but true, she realized looking at the board. How had that happened?

"We will play again soon, I hope?" he asked, rising from his chair.

She wanted to kiss him, despite the table still between them and the several pilgrims milling around the courtyard.  She was held in place by uncertainty, and could only experience his smile by looking instead of tasting. She imagined he would taste wonderful.

"As soon as you would like, Commander," she replied, not caring if she sounded overly eager.

"Until then." He gave her a shallow bow, and left for his office.

.  .  .  .

_A few weeks later._

Cullen knew he would have bad days, but he wished this wasn't one of them.  He ached everywhere, his limbs mostly, but the dull throb in his head could not be ignored.

The inquisitor had just returned, and with that came a rush of reports to read, maps to scrutinize, new rotations to establish, and sometimes fresh recruits to train.  Somehow she always brought back more personnel than she'd left with.

He drained the last of his coffee, a rare drink from Antiva that smelled wonderful but tasted bitter.  Still, it provided him with the energy he needed to focus.

He watched from the ramparts as the horses—and her halla—were led to the stables. Pockets of conversation developed as the traveling party dismounted and unloaded, and workers scurried to deliver supplies to where they were needed most.

Warden Blackwall emerged from his roost in the barn, no doubt to complain of being left behind again.  The man was a competent warrior, but the inquisitor saw no need to bring him along unless Grey Wardens or darkspawn were involved.

Cullen left that decision to her. He had enough to worry about, though it offered him a degree of comfort that Cassandra was the inquisitor’s most trusted warrior.

The inquisitor dealt with whatever the warden had to say quickly, and saw the halla to its stable, leaving the creature in the capable hands of Master Dennet.  Cullen half imagined she looked up at him when she turned toward the steps, but at this height he could not be certain.

The crowd below dispersed, and Cullen returned to his office. In a few moments Corporal Bevan would bring the most pressing messages, and the less imperative matters would trickle in as the day wore on.

Cullen sat at his desk and closed his eyes for a moment’s rest before the procession began.

When his door opened, he stood and reached for his quill, only instead of Bevan at his threshold, it was her.

"Oh, it’s you," he murmured, dropping the quill back into its stand.

"Is that bad?" She waited in the doorway, wringing her hands and darting her eyes about the room.

He moved from behind his desk, willing the pounding in his chest to recede and the flutter in his belly to still.  He had hoped to see her soon, to hear about her travels and anything else she might have to say. To tell her about the improvements to the southern towers and perhaps let her win another game of chess. He would have to start playing fair soon, he imagined, but he feared that if he won too often she may tire of him.

That was a discomforting thought.

When she’d left three weeks ago, he’d felt like a lost druffalo. He had his numerous duties to contend with, of course, but with her gone there was no chance of passing her in the courtyard or sitting next to her at meals, or walking with her to war council meetings.

He thought of all this, as she swallowed nervously still standing in his doorway.  She was dressed in her dusty traveling armor, leather gloves creaking as she worked her fingers together.

"Cul—Commander, are you alright?" she said.  "I can go, if you wish."

"No—that is—it’s good to see you, Inquisitor. I’m glad that you’ve returned safely."

"Not bearing any good news, I’m afraid," she said, pulling off her gloves and hanging them on her belt.  "I wanted to tell you myself. We’ll need more strength before we can approach Fairbanks."

Cullen leaned against the front side of his desk.  He wanted to hear more from her. Maker knows this information was better coming from her lips than Bevan’s. He shivered and wiped a hand across his brow. Was he sweating?

"I will make sure you have what you need," he said.  "I’ll look at the field reports as soon as Bevan gets here, and—" He closed his eyes, words escaping him for the moment. He felt like he were trembling, but perhaps that was the coffee making him jittery.

"Cullen?" she said. He heard her footsteps cross his office, and he leaned more heavily on his desk.  The last time she’d called him that, she’d been frozen and half asleep.

"You need to sit down," she told him, and he felt her duck under his arm and lead him to his chair.

By then he recognized the chills and the cold sweat covering him. His mouth watered and conjured the taste of lyrium all on its own. He ignored it. The urge would pass.  He focused instead on how she smelled, like dirt and leather and horse. She’d come to see him before doing anything else.

She knelt in front of him, and loosened the armor at his neck.

"I just need a moment," he said. He did not want her to see him like this.  He should send her for Cassandra or—

"It’s alright Cullen.  You once took care of me, let me take care of you."

"That was different," he replied. "I brought this on myself, and I will endure it the same way."

"Don’t be stupid," she said. "It doesn’t become you."  She pressed a cold flask into his hand. "Drink this."

"No, I won’t!" he exclaimed, nearly jumping to his feet.

"It’s water, Cullen. I promise."

"Oh."  He sipped on the tasteless liquid and slowed his breathing.  He wished she would leave him, and at the same time did not want to be alone.

"I don’t want you to worry," she said, bringing a dry cloth and placing it in his hand.  "I brought Bevan’s reports myself, so he won’t be bothering you."

He wiped his face, gathering enough strength to look at her.  She stared at him, chewing on her bottom lip and twisting her fingers in a loose strand on her jacket.

"I’ll be fine in a moment," he ground out, ashamed.

"I know you will. We will just give it some time."

She sank into a chair on the other side of his desk. “Before the Conclave,” she began, “there was a man—an elf.”

"Aimon," Cullen whispered, sighing and leaning back in his chair. His breathing had slowed on its own, and the phantom taste had left his tongue. Josephine had told them the story, with Leliana filling in the baser details, of how the Herald of Andraste had taken up an elven lover and ran off to join his mercenaries.  Of how the youngest Trevelyan daughter had spent the year before the Conclave under her parents' constant supervision because of her folly.

Strange that she would bring that up now. They were not privy to each other’s secrets, and yet he wanted to be.  He wanted to tell her about the time in Honneleath he’d tried to keep a pet bird in his room.  And he wanted to ask her what she said when she prayed, if she ever thought of him when she asked the Maker for strength.

She sighed.  “Aimon, yes. And…it wasn’t lyrium, but it was stamina draughts.  He would quit for a time, then take it up again. He was not as strong as you are.”

"Lyrium is different." He slid the flask onto the desk and balled the cloth in his hand. His heartbeat was finally slowing.

"I know. Cassandra told me."

They were silent for a time, and Cullen eventually found that he was able to sit up. He refastened his armor and tossed the cloth into his desk drawer.

She leaned forward in her chair and rested her elbows on her knees. It was almost the way she sat on the throne, were it not for how she strained her gaze on the floor.

"I wanted to see you," she murmured.  "That’s why I came instead of Bevan. I hope I didn’t—if _I_ was the cause of this, then I apologize.”

Cullen narrowed his eyes in disbelief.  “How could you think that you caused this?”

"You did not seem especially glad to see me."

"Oh." Cullen rose from the chair, weak but not debilitated, and leaned his fists against the desk. "I was only surprised. And truth be told I was not feeling well to begin with."

She nodded. “Alright.”

"It was not an unwelcome surprise," he blurted, watching her rise to leave.  "When we’ve both had time to attend to our duties, I would like to see you again."

"I can stay now, if you like."

He glanced at the stack of messages on the desk. She must have placed them there some moments ago.

He shook his head. "No, I should get to work. Perhaps I will see you at supper. Save me a seat?"

"I will, Commander," she inclined her head to him, and slipped through the door.

 

**Author's Note:**

> As [realitycheckbounced](http://realitycheckbounced.tumblr.com/post/104669810548/ok-but-during-the-chess-game-with-cullen-you-get) noted on Tumblr, if the Inquisitor plays fair, Cullen lets them win the chess match.
> 
> Chapter title inspired by [Guster's "Medicine."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9HfRAt6qe-g)


End file.
